


Little Bird.

by Michaelssw0rd



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Endearments, M/M, SO MUCH FLUFF, Slightly OOC maybe you've been warned, Smut, but very little smut really, fluuuuuffffffff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 01:49:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10980831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michaelssw0rd/pseuds/Michaelssw0rd
Summary: Five times Harold protests to the awful nickname John seemed to have become fond of, and the one time he doesn't.





	Little Bird.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [talkingtothesky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/gifts).



> Sky said she was in need of some Rinch fluff, and well, when is Rinch fluff ever a bad idea after all.  
> Here you go sweetie. I hope you like it and it makes you smile ♥.

**1.**

There were fingers in his hair, caressing, pulling him from his slumber slowly. He still grumbled, too comfortable where he was and unwilling to wake up just yet.

Soft lips pressed on his forehead, making him smile drowsily.

“Wake up sleepy bird. I am making breakfast,” John murmured, before kissing his forehead again and moving away.

Harold snuggled into the blankets for another few minutes, relishing the deep seated contentment he felt, before smell of breakfast cooking made him stomach rumble. He was brushing his teeth, when he suddenly remembered what John had called him.

_Sleepy bird._

On the breakfast table, John acted completely nonchalant. Harold had almost convinced himself that he had dreamt it up by the time he was sipping his perfectly brewed tea. John wasn’t one for terms of endearments, and especially not one so nonsensical.

 

**2.**

The next time it happened, Harold was too full of rage to register a passing remark.

“This is completely unacceptable. How could he even dare!” Harold paced the library floor, too restless to sit down.

“Calm down Finch. I am on it.”

“Calm down?” Harold was losing his composure, and it rarely happened. “Mr. Swastika just scammed dozens of elderly, chronically ill people, cheated them out of their health insurance, and he has been doing it for who knows how long. I want him caught Mr. Reese. Caught and exposed.”

He knew John was seething too. “Hang in there, angry bird. I will have him where he belongs in no time.” A few minutes later he heard sounds of a fight, ending in a satisfying crunch that was John’s fist meeting the perpetrator’s face. Harold did not condone violence, but he had to admit sometimes it was satisfying to hear it being dealt to the right people.

It was after John had handed Mr. Swastika off to Detective Carter and was on his way back to library that Harold actually registered his words.

He had done it again, and this time Harold couldn’t even blame it on the sleep. He had called _him angry bird_. Part of him was appalled, at how juvenile this was, but they had just saved the lives and savings of a few dozen old people. It was hard to be resentful.

That was what Harold blamed, for the flush rising on his cheeks and the warmth blooming in his chest.

 

**3.**

It was a good day.

They had saved a number. She had hugged Harold, and John had smiled at how awkwardly Harold hugged back. Then they had gone out for dinner afterwards. Harold realized he had had one too many glasses of Wine, because his guard was down, his mind at peace, and his tongue loose. Distantly, he realized he was vulnerable. But it was difficult to feel concerned when John was sitting in front of him, smiling bright and warm, and oozing comfort. He knew he was as safe as he could ever get.

“… So we hacked into the school’s alarm system, and changed all the sounds with animal noises. So next time a bell rang, all of MIT heard mooing of a cow instead of the shrill tone. It was awesome. They could never figure out who was behind it.”

“So you were quite a rebel then?”

“Nathan was a terrible influence,” Harold felt compelled to explain.

“And I suppose you were an innocent gullible angel?”

“Well… I wouldn’t really say that.”

John grinned wider, taking another sip of his drink. “You know, not that I mind, but you are in a very talkative mood today,” he started saying and Harold raised his eyebrows.

“Is it going to be another one of your bird jokes Mr. Reese?” John smirked at that. Ah. So they had been deliberate after all.

“One might even say, you’re positively chirping.” John finished, not even bothering to hide how wide he was smiling. He had consumed a little too much alcohol too.

Harold gaped, not believing his ears. “That… was an atrocious joke Mr. Reese.”

“Was it?” John placed his glass down, bending across the table and pulling Harold closer with his tie. “Maybe so. But you really are a chirping…”

“I must protest…” Harold let himself be tugged.

“Hmmm,” John pressed his lips to Harold, “Just like a cute, chirpy _bird_.”

“John…”

Harold’s protests were lost in the kiss, and then in the rush to go back home and finish what they had started.

 

**4.**

“Please be quiet Mr. Reese, I am trying to work here,” Harold snapped.

John looked up from where was quietly reading a book. He had just shared one of the facts he had found interesting, but Harold was finding all sound grating at the moment.

“Have you had tea yet?” he asked suddenly.

Harold didn’t answer. They had been busy with a Number all night, so when they were done, he had told John to go to the nearest safe house- it was almost dawn anyway- while he had slept in the library crash room. So no, he hadn’t in fact had tea. But he wasn’t about to admit it.

John chuckled, getting up and coming closer. “You should’ve told me.” He ruffled Harold’s hair, making Harold swat his hand ineffectively. “Let’s get some caffeine in you, shall we? You are a right grumpy bird before your morning cup,” he said, before kissing the top of his hair and turning away.

Harold didn’t want to delay him, the draw of tea too powerful, so he didn’t protest at the reappearance of the ridiculous endearment John was getting into a habit of using.

 

**5.**

John kissed down his neck, wet and open mouthed, lingering on his collarbone, and then lavishing his attention on his nipple, kissing and nibbling. Harold arched into the touch, thrumming with the slow built of pleasure John was so expertly coaxing his body into. John’s fingers trailed everywhere, proprietary and familiar, touching places he knew Harold liked. Harold moaned, and John brought himself back up, kissing him, swallowing down his sighs of pleasure.

“Beautiful,” John whispered against his lips, hoarse, “My beautiful, little bird.”

He wrapped his hands around Harold’s length, stroking dexterously, before lowering himself and taking him in his mouth. Harold did not have any cells in his brain left to complain about that exasperating nickname, too caught up in the way John was playing with every nerve in his body, settling them aflame.

 

**+1**

“Why do you call me that?” Harold asked, quietly, the post coital glow making his body languid.

“Call you what?” John turned towards him, smiling.

“All these,” Harold waved his hand, “these avian nicknames.”

“You mean little bird?” John laughed, “Can you blame me… considering all your aliases?”

Harold considered that, and then shook his head. “That’s not it. It seems… more than that.”

“It is,” John nodded, before caressing Harold’s face, brushing away the sweaty hair from his forehead.

Harold waited for him, to explain. He wasn’t disappointed. “You _are_ like a bird Harold, free and independent; flying, reaching new heights every day. Nothing can hold you back, no cage- no matter how gilded- would make you happy.” John looked at him eyes full of love and awe, “And yet…”

“And yet?” Harold pushed, mesmerized.

“And yet, you have made a nest, and you fly right back to it. Willingly.”

The intensity in John’s eyes was piercing, and Harold could feel a flush rising on his cheek. He took refuge from it in John’s chest, suddenly shy. John laughed and wrapped his arms around him.

In a way, John was right. Harold might be a bird, but he had never known what flight felt like before he met John. He had been too scared of failing, of falling, of succumbing to the immense gravity of life pulling him down. But he was flying now, soaring, with John being the steady wind under his wings, keeping him afloat.

“My little bird,” John whispered.

Harold supposed he was.

 


End file.
